


On The Edge Of The Mind

by watanuki_sama



Series: Shards Of Quantum Glass [15]
Category: Common Law (TV)
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Hauntings, Mention of canon off-screen suicide, Psychics, self-hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 12:37:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: There are always people who won't believe in paranormal phenomenon, whether or not they have evidence right in front of them. The skeptics don't tend to also be the people being haunted, though.





	On The Edge Of The Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 09.15.19.
> 
> PROMPT: Psychics

_“A person's mind is so powerful. We can invent, create, experience, and destroy things with thoughts alone.”_  
_—Marwa Schoch (@_egypt_)_

\---

Over the years, Travis has met a lot of skeptics. It’s the nature of the job, really. There are always people who won’t believe in paranormal phenomenon, whether or not they have evidence right in front of them. Travis knows how to deal with those sorts.

Confrontations with skeptics just generally feels so awkward, though, mostly because Travis always has the urge to argue his point with them, and he’s not very good about making an argument without yelling; too many of his ‘arguments’ have ended with him punching someone. Travis has had _way_ too many dressing-downs by the director that even thinking about confronting skeptics brings a humiliating sense of shame radiating down his spine.

So he tends to avoid them, and when he can’t, he lets Kendall or Jonelle deal with them. Of course, in general, they don’t come across all that many skeptics in the normal line of duty anyway. By the time Travis and his team get called in, the skeptics have usually been transformed into believers—skeptics don’t tend to be the owners of the houses they’re investigating.

The blonde in the suit hasn’t gotten the memo. “I’ll ask you again.” He crosses his arms, a truly impressive scowl on his face. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

Travis looks around; Kendall is hunched over her monitors, and Jonelle is sitting on the couch, eyes closed and hands loose in her lap. No help from either of them.

He pastes a smile on his face and holds out a hand. “I’m Travis Marks. This is Kendall Zehetner and Jonelle Coppola. We’re from the Sutton Psychic Research Institute.”

The blonde’s scowl twists even more, and he doesn’t take Travis’s hand. _“Psychics.”_

Travis is more than familiar with this sort of sarcastic derision and ignores it. “That’s right.”

“But what are you _doing_ here?”

Since this guy has no intention of taking it, Travis lets his hand fall back to his side. “Well, if you’re Wes Mitchell, then your wife called us in.”

The blonde stares at Travis. He looks around the room, at Kendall’s monitors and equipment, at Jonelle meditating on the couch.

Then he tips his head back and bellows, “Alex!”

\---

_“Psychics?_ You called _psychics_ in?!”

“We need help, Wes! You can’t keep pretending everything is fine!”

“That doesn’t mean you should call in a bunch of—they’re probably con artists!”

“They come very highly reviewed.”

“By who, _UFO hunters?”_

With effort, Travis tunes out the fight coming from the kitchen and sidles up beside Kendall. “What’ve you got?”

The redhead is frowning down at her screens. Travis can’t read them, doesn’t know how to interpret the squiggles and lines, but Kendall is staring so intently that Travis puts on a studious face and looks at them too.

“There’s definitely something here,” Kendall says. She taps one of her screens. “It’s really powerful. The last time I saw readings like this was that haunted summer camp a few years ago.”

Travis grimaces. He remembers that case. “Awesome. Jonelle?”

“This house is thick with energy.” Her head moves back and forth, like a dog seeking a scent. “Anger, hate, despair, guilt…I can barely sort out the topmost layers.”

“Well, at least we’ll be earning our rate.” The shouting from the kitchen has stopped. Travis takes a breath and faces the doorway. “Showtime, guys.”

Kendall and Jonelle both sit up, coming to alert. A second later, Wes emerges, his wife’s hand in the middle of his back, guiding him into the living room. From the thunderous look on Wes’s face, he clearly lost the argument.

They arrange themselves around the room: Kendall stays with her monitors; Wes and Alex sit side by side on the couch, her hand on his elbow to keep him in his seat; Jonelle sits in the armchair, studying the couple; and Travis rests on the arm of the chair.

Alex shifts. “I, um, I don’t quite know…”

Travis gives her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you start with why you called us?”

“Right.” Alex takes a breath, glances at her husband. Wes’s face is a stony mask, staring into the middle distance like if he just tries hard enough all of this will go away. Alex sighs, squares her shoulders, and faces the team. “My husband is being haunted.”

Wes makes a little sound in his throat.

They ignore him.

“We hardly noticed it at first,” Alex continues. “It was little things. His keys disappeared, or he’d put something down and it wouldn’t be in the same place when he went back to it. Sometimes he’d smell smoke.”

Travis’s eyebrows go up. “Smoke?”

Alex nods. “Like woodsmoke, not candle smoke. There was never a fire—sometimes there wasn’t even smoke at all. Just the smell.” She pauses. Travis nods at her to keep going. “Then it got worse. Things would appear in odd places, dangerous places. Like at the top of the stairs, just as he was about to go down. And some papers burst into flames in Wes’s hands.”

“Spontaneous combustion is an actual phenomenon,” Wes snarks. Alex shoots him a dirty look.

Travis leans forward before they can start shouting again. “But there was something else, wasn’t there? Something bad enough that you called us.”

Alex’s face gets pinched and drawn. For the first time Travis can see the fear she’s so expertly been covering. She looks at her husband. “Show them your arm.”

Stubbornly, Wes tightens his jaw. “No.”

_“Wes.”_

Maybe Wes can hear the worry under the steel in her voice, because he gives in. With a sigh and an eye roll worthy of any overworked teenager, Wes opens his cuff and rolls up his sleeve. The forearm of his left arm is bandaged; without prompting, Wes starting unwinding the bandage.

Travis hears Kendall gasp, and he kind of has the same internal reaction. There’s a six-inch gash in Wes’s arm, and the line of neat black stitches can’t hide the ugly edges of the wound.

“What happened?” Jonelle asks.

Reluctantly, Wes says, “I was in the kitchen, chopping carrots. It was like the knife started moving on its own. I tried to stop it, but…well, clearly I couldn’t.”

Jonelle stares at him intently. “Was it the knife that moved, or your hand?”

Wes has a scathing remark all lined up, Travis can see it. He cuts in before Wes can say anything with a gentle, “It’s important, Wes.”

The blonde sits back, letting out a gusty, annoyed breath. “It was the knife, okay? I wasn’t _possessed_ or anything.”

“Good.” Travis ignores the vicious sarcasm. “That’s good to know. Now, is there anyone you can think of who might be doing this? Maybe someone who died recently?”

Wes abruptly lurches to his feet. “I’m going to change.” He storms out of the room, and they listen to him stomp up the stairs.

“I’m sorry.” Alex wrings her hands together, staring in the direction of the stairs. “It’s a difficult subject for him.”

Jonelle, who can be surprisingly gentle when it comes to people other than Travis, prompts, “Tell us about it.”

Alex takes a slow breath. “There was this boy named Anthony. Anthony Padua…”

She tells them the story, and Travis can’t help but feel a little sympathy for the guy. He knows what it’s like to lose someone, and even if it’s not your fault, the guilt eats at you. Add to that a haunting, and Wes has got to be feeling like shit.

Alex is winding down the tale when Jonelle stiffens, eyes rolling back in her head. “It’s here! He’s—”

Travis doesn’t wait for her to finish her sentence, he leaps off the chair and races for the stairs. Kendall is on his heels, a handheld device beeping wildly in her hand, and Alex is right behind her.

They’re too late. They arrive in the hall just in time to see Wes at the top of the stairs, and a vase flying towards the back of his head.

“Wes!” Alex shrieks, and Wes turns towards her, puzzled.

The vase crashes against the side of his head, and he crumples, tumbling bonelessly down the stairs.

\---

While Alex takes Wes to the emergency room, Kendall goes over everything in that hallway with her scanner and Travis fills Jonelle in on what happened. Jonelle listens solemnly, looking troubled.

“It’s powerful,” she says when he finishes. “There was so much loathing, hate, guilt…” She blinks hard, like she’s fighting down tears, which is a scary thought in and of itself—Travis has never seen Jonelle cry. “It felt like I was breaking apart.”

Kendall enters the room, eyes glued to her scanner. “These power levels are crazy high. I don’t know if it’s magnified by the emotional component, but we’re damn lucky it was just a vase and not something worse.”

Lucky. Right. Tell that to Wes and Alex.

Travis inhales, rubbing his forehead. “Okay. Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. Kendall, I want you to dig up everything you can on Anthony Padua. This all started after he died, he’s the key. Jonelle, see if you can untangle the energies, maybe find a trail, something we can use. And I’ll call Sutton with an update.”

He claps his hands. “Alright, people, let’s get to work.”

\---

Jonelle doesn’t find anything. “It’s formless,” she says. “There’s no starting or ending point, it’s just an endless sinkhole of emotion. The grief is so strong I can’t get anything else.”

Kendall, on the other hand, finds too much information. “Anthony was Spanish on one side and Italian on the other, which means he’s got like a million family members, most of whom live in the greater LA area.”

Travis looks at the mountain of data and printouts in front of him and sighs. “Great.”

By the time Alex and Wes return, the team has taken over the kitchen table, paper and equipment and laptops covering the surface. Wes has a butterfly clip on his temple and bruises on a good portion of his exposed skin. Alex has Chinese takeout.

“You are a goddess,” Travis praises, helping get plates and forks. Kendall doesn’t even notice the plate by her elbow. Jonelle gives a distracted, “Thanks,” eating mechanically as she pours over the stack of paper in front of her.

Wes skips the food. He drinks a glass of water and pops a few Tylenol and, moving gingerly, heads for the hall. “I’m going to bed. Don’t need me.”

Alex nibbles a few bites before abandoning her food. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“I wish.” Travis sighs. “I’d love you to help, honest. Unfortunately, you just wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“Right.” She gives him a wan, tired smile. “I just hate feeling useless, you know?”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Travis puts his hand on her shoulder, smiling reassuringly. “This is our job, not yours. The best thing you can do right now is be with your husband. **You should go to him.**”

Alex blinks at him. “Yeah…you’re right. Wes needs me right now.” She deposits her dishes in the sink and follows her husband’s path.

Travis turns to find both his team members staring at him. He blinks and puts on his most innocent face. “What?”

Jonelle gives him the stinkeye, and Kendall just shakes her head and looks down at her tablet again.

\---

He jerks awake to three sounds: 1) the alarm on Kendall’s sensors beeping insistently; 2) the wail of the fire alarm; and 3) Alex’s terrified shrieking. Travis is racing up the stairs before he’s fully awake, and that’s when he smells the smoke—woodsmoke, like standing next to a bonfire.

He kicks the bedroom door open, Jonelle right on his heels, and—there’s this _figure_, made of smoke and flickering flames, fiery hands pushing Wes down into the bed, a cloud of smoke choking him. Wes scrabbles, fighting, but the apparition is shifting and diaphanous—there’s nothing for Wes to grab onto. Alex has a blanket in her hands, is trying to beat out the fire, but that’s about as effective as Wes’s struggles.

Travis leaps into action. “**Get out!**” he bellows, crossing the room. “**Leave!**” Alex stiffens, drops the blanket, and stumbles out of the room, but the smoke figure doesn’t cease its attack. Wes arches, gasping for breath he can’t get.

Jonelle plunges her hands into the figure’s abdomen, brow furrows in concentration. It’s only a few seconds, but it feels like half an eternity before she says, “Now, Travis!”

“**Leave this house!**” Travis orders. “**Leave and don’t come back!**”

This time, the spirit listens, whisping out of existence and leaving behind char and ashes. Wes rolls off the bed, clutching his throat and gasping for air. Travis slumps against the wall and lets out a relieved breath.

Outside, the fire trucks pull up.

\---

Wes gets a long lecture about smoking in bed, something Travis promises to snicker over later, and the EMTs give him oxygen and patch up his burns. He refuses to go to the hospital; Travis finds him in the kitchen making coffee with shaking hands.

“Coffee?” Travis asks, slouching against the doorframe. “That really a good idea so late?”

Wes chuckles bitterly. “I doubt I’ll get back to sleep.”

“Point.” He lingers, watching Wes pour the ground beans into the coffeemaker. He sets it to brew, inhales, and turns. Travis, who can tell when people are gearing up to say something, waits.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.” Wes’s hands are restless, fluttering over the counter. “Once you’re gone, that’s _it_. Dead is dead. There’s nothing left.” His gaze is steady, daring Travis to fight him on this.

Travis slides into the room, resting a hip against the kitchen table. “I totally agree.”

The blonde startles, eyebrows flying up. “Really? But you’re from a psychic research institute. You think I’m being haunted.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely being haunted. I just never said a ghost was responsible.”

Wes’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

Travis gestures for Wes to sit, taking a chair of his own. After a moment, Wes does.

“There are people,” Travis explains, “who can do things with their minds and bodies that science can’t quite explain. At least not yet. That’s what we’re studying at Sutton’s Institute, and that’s why we’re here. We find out who’s doing this, and we stop them.”

Wes frowns a little. Travis continues before he can voice the protests he’s formulating. “You are being haunted by a person with psychic powers. Telekinesis—that’s moving things with your mind—and pyrokinesis—creating and controlling fire.”

“Psychics,” Wes says flatly. “ESP. All that crap. That’s what you’re talking about.” Travis nods, and Wes pinches the bridge of his nose. “And let me guess, you and your team all have ‘powers’ too.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Travis chirps, “Yup! Well, most of us. Kendall’s normal, but she’s a technical genius. She made most of her equipment from scratch. Jonelle, though, she’s an empath. That means she can sense energies. Feelings, too, if she’s concentrating hard enough or she’s touching someone.”

“And you?” Wes studies him thoughtfully. “What can you do?”

Travis grins his most charming and winks. “I have a silver tongue.”

Wes snorts. “Right.” The coffeemaker beeps, and he rises, grabbing a mug and pouring.

Before he can take a sip, Travis says, “**You should go to sleep. You look tired.**”

The blonde’s entire body slumps, and he almost drops the mug. “I’m not sure I can,” he mumbles, the words dragging.

“It’s easy.” Travis rises, pulls the mug out of Wes’s exhausted grip. “**Go to the guest room. Lay down. Pull up the covers and close your eyes.** You’ll be asleep in minutes.”

Wes’s eyes droop, and a huge yawn makes his jaw crack. “Maybe you’re right,” he mutters, turning towards the hall. “I should just sleep.”

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” Travis promises.

Wes pauses in the doorway, giving Travis a weary smile. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Wes.”

For a few minutes after Wes leaves, Travis stares at the empty doorway, frowning thoughtfully.

\---

For all his annoying stubborn personality, Wes has damn fine taste in coffee. Travis brings three mugs out to the living room. Jonelle and Kendall, as expected, are both still up, and accept the beverages gratefully.

“So,” Travis says, settling into an armchair. “Pyro.”

“She was angry,” Jonelle says. Her hands are burned from her contact with the flaming spirit; she handles the mug carefully and winces when she bends her fingers. “God, she was so angry, and—it was like she was crying hate.”

‘She’. That’s good to know. Gives them something to look for, at least, some small clue to narrow their suspect pool. “Can you track it?”

Jonelle shakes her head. “You don’t know what this house feels like. It’s a morass of emotion. Hate, anger, fear, pain, guilt. It’s all layered over _everything_. The pyro just added to that. I can’t even start to sort it all out.”

“Awesome,” Travis grumbles into his mug. He turns to Kendall, who is staring at her screens, brow furrowed. “What’ve you got, Ken?”

The redhead bites her thumbnail, shakes her head. “I’m sure it’s nothing…”

“Just spit it out.”

“Well…” She shakes her head again. “I don’t know. I’ve been looking at the scans from this attack, comparing it to the one from this afternoon with the vase. Honestly…if I didn’t know better, I’d say these signatures belong to two different people.”

“Huh.” Travis sits back, absorbing that info. “Could that just be because it’s teek versus pyro? Different signatures for different powers?”

“Maybe,” Kendall reluctantly allows. “Double manifestations are rare enough I don’t have a ton of data. I really can’t say.”

“Great. I love the easy cases.” Travis drains the rest of his coffee and stands. “Anyone want more coffee? I feel like it’s gonna be a long night.”

\---

The next two days are more of the same. Travis and his team camp out in the Mitchell living room and do their best to figure out what’s going on. Alex hovers over Wes, and Wes quietly allows it, though he looks fit to bursting with annoyance every time Travis sees him.

The fire apparition doesn’t reappear, but there are a handful of new attacks, including one explosion that takes out two tires on Wes’s car and scorches the paint. Wes gets more upset about the damage to his car than the fact that there was an actual _explosion_ this time, which his wife doesn’t seem to appreciate. 

Every night, Travis has to encourage Wes and Alex to go to sleep.

On Monday, Wes announces that he has to go to court. Alex doesn’t want him to go. Travis disagrees.

“A public place might draw her out,” he reasons. “This is a good chance to end this, once and for all. And if she does show, we’ll be there to stop her.”

Alex still isn’t convinced, but Wes refuses to miss work because of this, so eventually she’s forced to give in.

And thus, they set out.

\---

Travis commandeers the back corner of the audience, lounging in a way that gives him full view of the room. Jonelle sits in the opposite corner, eyes closed, watching the room with all the senses he doesn’t have. Kendall sits up front with Alex, behind Wes’s seat, her scanner running in her lap. They’re as prepared as they’re going to be. Now it’s just a waiting game.

Court cases, it turns out, are much more interesting on TV. Travis finds his mind wandering, distracted, so he almost misses it when the door cracks open and a teenager slips inside. Travis’s gaze skips over her face twice before he recognizes her, and just like that, he knows he was right. She has no reason to be here, no connection to this particular case.

But she has a very strong connection to Wes.

There’s no way to warn his team without drawing attention to himself. He settles in, watching her from the corner of his eye.

It’s less than ten minutes before Jonelle sits up, eyes snapping open. Travis catches her eye and nods towards the girl, and recognition creeps across Jonelle’s face.

The girl doesn’t notice the scrutiny; her eyes are squeezed tight, lips moving silently as she concentrates.

In the front of the courtroom, Wes’s sleeve starts to smolder.

Alex notices it and sits upright, and it’s only Kendall’s hand on her arm that keeps her from leaping forward. Travis tenses, readying himself, counting under his breath.

_One…two…three…four…_

When he gets to five, Wes’s jacket bursts into flames.

“**Fire!**” Travis leaps onto his seat, hands cupped over his mouth. “**Fire! Everyone out!**” Seeing the first vestiges of panic in the crowd, he calls, “**Calmly! There’s no need to panic!**” and the room settles.

Jonelle stands by the door, grabs the girl before she can escape. Kendall and Alex leap over the rail to help Wes, but there’s no need—as soon as Jonelle’s hand wraps around the girl’s arm, her power works to counter the pyro’s, and the flames stop.

Travis stays where he is, ordering people to exit in a calm and orderly manner, and within minutes, only the six of them remain. Travis hops down, heading up front with Jonelle and the girl.

Wes shrugs out of his ruined jacket with a scowl. “I hope you caught her—” His words cut off abruptly when he sees who Jonelle has in her grasp. Alex gasps, eyes widening.

“Lucia Padua,” Kendall says for the edification of no one; they all know who this girl is. “Sixteen years old. Anthony Padua’s younger sister.”

The girl snarls, trying to yank her arm out of Jonelle’s grip. “It’s your fault,” she hisses, hate turning her ugly. “It’s all your fault!”

Wes stumbles back, face pale.

“Your brother killed himself,” Travis corrects her. “**It wasn’t Wes’s fault.**”

But she’s too enraged to hear Travis’s words. “Your fault! You were supposed to protect him, but you killed him! _You should have died instead!”_

Wes makes a sound like a dying animal, and Kendall’s sensors burst into life. Travis tenses, looking around for smoke, but there’s nothing, and Jonelle is holding Lucia anyway so how can she be doing anything? He looks at the empath for answers.

Jonelle is staring at Wes, horrified. “Stop him,” she whispers.

Everything explodes into chaos.

\---

Guilt.

That’s what Jonelle had said. The house was saturated with guilt, a morass of guilt and pain that sucked in all the other emotions in the house. But what would Lucia have to feel guilty about? She didn’t kill her brother. She was full of hate and anger, burning so hot it burst out of her in flames, trying to destroy the one she hated so much.

_“If I didn’t know better, I’d say these signatures belong to two different people,”_ Kendall had said.

_“There was so much loathing, hate, guilt…It felt like I was breaking apart.”_ Jonelle’s words, after that first attack with the vase.

The clues were right there, but none of them could see it. None of them were _looking_ for it.

Guilt. Who would feel guiltier than the person who sent a young man to his death, intentional or not? Who else but the one who blamed himself for everything?

If Wes had allowed Jonelle to touch him just once, this whole case could have been solved that first day.

Travis curses and ducks as a chair flies over his head, much too close for comfort. Chairs, papers, the water glass from the judge’s stand, everything not nailed down is flying through the air, a storm in the center of the room. Even the heavy benches in the audience are rattling ominously. And it’s all centered on Wes, swirling malevolently around him.

Wes, for his part, is staring at the maelstrom, face slack with shock, so at least he hadn’t been holding information back on purpose.

The women have taken cover behind the jury’s—box podium thing. Jonelle is still regulating Lucia’s power, thank god. The last thing they need right now is fire added to the mix. Travis, like a heroic idiot, is heading into the heart of the storm, staying low to avoid as much of the debris as possible.

“Wes!” he shouts over the noise. “**Stop!**”

A pen zips by, as fast as a bullet. Travis curses and drops to his belly; a second later there’s a cry of pain, and Wes is clutching his upper arm. The pen has blood on the tip. Travis curses again and army-crawls as fast as he can.

_You should have died instead!_ Lucia had screamed. Subconsciously, it appears that Wes believes the same—or, at least, he thinks he needs to be hurt for his part in the tragedy.

Guilt.

This, then, is Wes’s punishment against himself.

Papers fly into Travis’s face, momentarily blinding him. He claws them away, tossing them aside in time to see a chair slam into Wes’s back, dropping him to his knees. Travis crosses the remaining distance in no time at all.

Travis grabs Wes’s head, pulls him close so he can shout in the blonde’s ear. “**Wes! Stop!**”

The room freezes, items suspended midair. For a moment, there’s blessed silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the two men.

Wes trembles beneath him, white showing all around his eyes. “What the _hell?_”

“I promise, I’ll explain everything later, but right now you need to stop. So you need to **listen to me.**” Wes’s eyes snap to him.

Travis takes a breath, tries to calm his own racing heart. “**Breathe, Wes. Deep breaths. Calm your mind, calm your body. You’re okay. You’re safe.**”

It works, for a heartbeat. Wes breathes, and the panic recedes from his eyes. The levitating objects start to descend.

Then Lucia pops up from behind the jury box, wrenching free before Jonelle can stop her. Tears on her cheeks, she screams, “You killed him!”

Travis is no empath, but he swears he can actually _feel_ despair rising off of Wes in a thick black cloud. The items in the air start moving again.

“**Wes! Calm down!**” It’s no use. Wes’s emotions run too deep, Travis can’t overpower them with only his words. Travis looks desperately at the jury box, a question on his face.

Jonelle, catching his eye, shakes her head, gesturing at Lucia. The message is clear; she can’t regulate them both, and she’d have to be touching Wes anyway.

“I need a solution here, guys!” he screams, pushing Wes to one side. The judge’s gavel bounces off his shoulder, and his arm goes numb, but it’s better than letting it go through Wes’s skull.

“Working on it!” He can’t see Kendall, but he can imagine her fingers flying over the keyboard at the speed of light, searching for a solution. Travis manhandles Wes out of the path of a few more deadly objects.

“Any time now, Ken!”

“Okay, okay, got it!” Kendall peers over the jury box, pointing at Wes. “He’s a teek! They need to be conscious!”

Travis whirls, slaps a hand over Wes’s eyes and screams in his ear, “**Go to sleep!**” Then, because he knows what this sort of emotional turmoil can do even subconsciously, he adds, “**Sleep a dreamless sleep!**”

Wes slumps to the floor. All the items in the air follow suit, and stillness descends upon the room.

\---

The cleanup, after all the excitement, is anticlimactic. Alex goes out, spinning lies and excuses for the crowd outside. Kendall finds an empty conference room to update Sutton, and Jonelle follows with her hand still on Lucia. Wes gets taken to the first aid room; Travis waits for them to bandage Wes’s arm before kicking everyone else out and locking the door.

He settles into a chair, elbows on his knees, and murmurs, “**Wake up, Wes.**”

Wes jerks awake with a gasp, hands flying in front of his face. It takes a second to register that nothing’s trying to brain him anymore. Cautiously, he lowers his arms, look at Travis. “What the _hell?”_

“We were wrong,” Travis says simply. “You were being haunted by two people, not one. I’m sorry.” Travis hates apologizing, but this could have been solved so much quicker if he’d been on top of things better. Sometimes apologies are necessary.

Wes frowns. “Two? I didn’t see anyone but Lucia.”

“And you.”

The blonde blinks. “What?”

Travis gives him a sympathetic little smile. “You’re psychic, Wes. Telekinetic. Pretty damn powerful to boot. If you’d manifested when you were younger you’d probably be the strongest teek out there by now.”

Wes’s eyebrows draw in. “Is that unusual?”

“Eh, not really.” Travis shrugs. “I mean, most people manifest during puberty—raging hormones and whatnot—but tragedy or trauma tends to be a catalyst for latent abilities. Late bloomers aren’t so uncommon.”

Wes stares at him. Travis waggles his head side to side. “Now, if you’re talking about being the victim of your own haunting…yeah, that’s pretty damn rare.”

“Wonderful.” Wes falls back against the wall, arm draped over his eyes. “This is just wonderful.”

The silence is thick and tense. Travis shifts in his seat, fingers twisting together.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I wasn’t lying about having a silver tongue. I can make people do things, just by talking to them. When I manifested…I was just a kid, and I was angry. I said some things, horrible things, and…someone I cared about got hurt.”

He glances up, and Wes is watching him, expression inscrutable. Travis gives him a mirthless, empty smile. “In some ways, you’re lucky. You only hurt yourself.”

“Lucky.” Wes scoffs, shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s the word I’d use.”

The silence falls once more.

Suddenly, Wes sits up, scrubbing his hands over his face, and now he’s got his business mode on, ready to deal with any upcoming challenge. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’m a—a telekinetic. What are my options?”

“Come with us,” Travis offers instantly. “To the Institute. We can help you, teach you how to control and manage your powers. Hell, with levels like yours, Sutton’ll probably try to recruit you on the spot.”

Wes ponders this for a minute. “And if I want to get rid of my…powers?” He says the last word like it’s dirty, and Travis deflates a bit.

Reluctantly, he admits, “We can do that too. We have drugs that can suppress your abilities. Might leave you a little fuzzy-headed, but it’ll do the job.”

He leans back in his seat. “There’s also a surgical option, if you want a more…_permanent_ solution, but there’s about a thirty percent chance of brain damage, so we try to use that as a last resort.”

“So I can be drugged into incoherency or brain-damaged,” Wes summaries wryly. He runs a hand though his hair, making it stick up on end. “So many wonderful choices.”

“Or you can let us help you.” Travis leans forward again, earnest. It’s hard not to use his powers—he hates seeing people denying a part of themselves, throwing it away, and all it would take is a few words… But Wes has to make this choice for himself or it won’t mean anything.

“This is what we _do_, Wes. We help people like you. You can live a perfectly normal life without ever worrying about hurting anyone again. You just need to learn how to control your powers. You don’t have to turn off part of your brain just because you’re scared. Let us help you.”

Wes rises, moves across the room to the window. He rests his palms on the sill, shoulders bowed, back a tired curve. But, and Travis takes hope in this, he doesn’t look defeated. The ones who have given up are the ones who want it all gone, and Wes isn’t there yet.

“If I just leave it alone,” Wes says, voice carefully flat, “What will happen?”

Travis is pretty sure Wes is smart enough to guess, but he answers anyway “More of the same. You may know about your powers now, but you don’t have any control. And you have a lot of strong emotions. You won’t be able to stop yourself.”

Still staring at the city outside, Wes asks, “Will I hurt Alex?”

Travis hesitates long enough to earn a sharp glare from Wes. “Not on purpose,” he decides, which isn’t really reassuring at all. “You seem pretty intent on only hurting yourself. But she could be caught in the crossfire.”

“I see.” Wes looks back outside, and Travis is no empath, he has no idea what’s going on in Wes’s head.

“You just need control, Wes,” Travis tells him again, gentle and coaxing, trying to draw Wes to his side. “We can help you. Let us help you.”

Wes exhales, shoulders dropping, and Travis’s heart sinks. But when the other man turns, there’s nothing but determination on his face.

“When do we start?”


End file.
